LOCALadk Magazine
Issue link: https://localadkmagazine.uberflip.com/i/1544680
Granite towers and an endless expanse of snow on the Pika Glacier. LOCALadk 23 The 90-hour nap Tent time didn't come as a surprise. The immediate quantity of it, however, was more than anticipated. The storm blew hard. The temperatures dropped. The snow kept falling. We were left to our devices. Really, there was a dis- tinct lack of devices. We each had our cellphones, but they served mainly as cameras, cribbage boards, and an endless supply of Fleetwood Mac. The storm continued. Will yourself to unzip the sleeping bag. Crawl into the freezing cold vestibule. Put your hardshells on. Go use the bathroom in a plastic can. Back in the vestibule. Hardshells off. Back into the tent. Back into the sleeping bag. Then, we'd remain there until we convinced our- selves it was time to melt snow on our backup stove and gobble down a cold PB& J for breakfast. In an effort to conserve our single can of fuel for the back- up stove, we only used it to melt snow into drinkable water. We would eat the rest of our food cold. Cold work pays off Despite hardly straying from basecamp for several days, our psych stayed high. If nothing else, we were on the coolest camping trip of our lives. That's what we told ourselves, but the anticipation swelled more with every day. "Man, we are so far out here. I don't think I've ever been this remote." Every step away from basecamp and the shelter of our tent made that distance greater. The short windows in between cloudbursts gave us time to explore the glacier and its mountain passes. We explored down the glacier, taking mental notes and working hard not to stare too long at every couloir. We climbed to Pika Pass - the same pass we had flown through days prior. The untouched rolling descent fanned the flame. For now, the weather was clear. Having never been to the Pika, and having not been able to leave camp, we were yet to map the crevasses, so we moved carefully. We set our sites for a smaller peak near the Royal Tower, dubbed the "Munchkin". We had chosen this particular chute for its proximity to camp and its approach. The climb would be relatively safe, and the bootpack was protected from the looming cornice by a double fall line and a wall of golden granite. It's impossible to convey the mental state that four days in a 30 square foot tent leaves you in. We had sunken into ourselves. The slow descent to madness was lubricated, if not exaggerated by a leather pouch, full of red wine and a brand new tin whistle which I played incessantly. We crossed the bergschrund - the crevasse formed where the snow of the mountain meets the gla- cier - and continued swimming through chest deep snow. The 50 -degree slope kept our steps small, but we gradually gained elevation. The bootpack, which would go on for hours, was interrupted only slightly. I lifted my leg, using my hands to balance and my knee to rake snow into the footprint and build support for my next step. Yet, no matter how much snow I seemed to put there, I couldn't get it to support my weight. I shoveled more. Nothing. Finally, as I tested the step, I discovered why. My foot punched through the snow, and disappeared